


Gave All I Had To Give

by UnrememberedSkies



Series: Whumptober 2019 Fills [1]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Body Dysphoria, Gen, Good Parent Grace Hargreeves, Luther Hargreeves Needs A Hug, Self-Harm, Shaky Hands, Whumptober 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-09 06:22:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20848928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnrememberedSkies/pseuds/UnrememberedSkies
Summary: After the accident, Luther's hands won't stop shaking.





	Gave All I Had To Give

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt 'shaky hands' at [Whumptober 2019](https://whumptober2019.tumblr.com/). Luther needs more love! And how else do you show love than by hurting your favourite characters?

The sound of his screaming brought Dad, Grace and Pogo into the medical bay. Grace and Pogo fussed around him: Grace checking his vitals, the blood pressure cuff barely fitting around his arm, and Pogo passed him a glass of water and a handful of pills that he said would help. Luther looked down at them in his huge, hairy hand, and wondered what they were supposed to help with. He swallowed them down obediently.

Dad stood off to the side, his arms folded, peering at him through his monocle. He asked Luther clipped questions about how he was feeling, what he remembered last. Luther tried to answer clearly, but his voice trembled, and he could see the twitch of Dad’s cheek that said he was displeased.

Grace put a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged her off. He didn’t want to look any weaker in front of Dad, and because he didn’t want anyone touching his new, disgusting body.

No. That was wrong. He should be grateful – Dad saved his life.

His hands hadn’t stopped shaking since he woke up and looked down at them for the first time. Luther tucked them under the blanket in his lap, hoping Dad hadn’t seen them. He looked up at his father, waiting to find out what would happen next. He didn’t think he was ready for another mission yet – the feeling of burning, searing pain in his chest was still too recent – but he thought if Dad asked him, he would get right back out there. Dad knew his strength and limitations; if Dad said he was ready, he was ready.

If only he could tell that to his damn trembling hands.

Dad didn’t tell him to prepare for another mission. He listened to Grace’s report on Luther’s overall health, offered a brisk “very good,” and strode out of the room. Luther stared after him.

“It’s good to have you back, Master Luther,” Pogo said, his smile a little pained.

“Thanks,” Luther mumbled. He couldn’t meet Pogo’s eye, but he couldn’t look down at his own hands either. So, he settled for staring blankly at the wall opposite.

“I’ll get you some clothes, Luther, dear,” Grace said. Luther saw her make an aborted movement towards him with her hand, like she wanted to touch him but stopped herself. Logically, Luther knew it was because he had shunned her touch earlier, but some weak, emotional part of himself couldn’t help but feel the sting of hurt. He hunched in on himself and closed his eyes.

Pogo followed Grace out, and didn’t return with her when she came back with a pile of clothes, all dull browns and greens. She set them down on a chair, and turned back to him, hands clasped neatly in front of her. “Have a shower and a shave, dear. You’ll feel like yourself again in no time!”

She smiled brightly, and left the room. Removing them from beneath the blanket, Luther looked down at his hands, thick-fingered and hairy, and wondered if himself even existed anymore.

* * *

He stood at the sink, in front of the mirror, and tried not to flinch at his appearance. His body had always been something he’d taken pride in, with his long limbs and defined muscles. He didn’t recognise the monster in the mirror, even though it moved in sync with him, and same look of heartbreak and loss was etched on its face.

Luther picked up the razor with trembling hands, and brought it to his lathered-up beard. He hesitated for a moment, before dragging the blade down, cutting through the hair. His hand gave a particularly violent shake, and he flinched at the sudden sharp pain on his cheek. He pulled the razor away, and the blade was bloody.

He stared at it. His blood, he noted, was still red. Looking back up at his reflection, he watched the cut bead and drip, staining his beard a sticky and shiny red. He dropped his gaze back to the razor, and eyed it contemplatively for a moment, before bringing it to brush gently against his chest.

He could shave all the additional hair from his chest and arms, rid himself of the long thick hair that marked his inhumanity. 

He would still be the stuff of nightmares. 

His hand shook again, and the sharp edge of the razor nicked the thick skin of his chest. There was that sharp pain again, fleeting but real. He could still feel things, then.

Luther watched, transfixed, as the blood appeared, bright against his dark chest. Feeling strangely distant from the experience, he moved the blade lower, pressed a little harder.

“Luther, dear…”

Luther jumped and dropped the razor in the sink with a loud clatter. He wrapped his arms around his chest, looked at her in the reflection of the mirror. She was stood in the doorway, a neutral expression on her face. Luther wasn’t sure whether she’d seen. He wasn’t sure she’d understand, even if she did.

“Mom, what are you doing here?”

“I came to see if you needed any help. And to tell you that your father would like you to join him for dinner this evening.”

“I’m fine,” Luther said, hugging himself tighter under her piercing gaze, “and yeah, sure. I’ll be down for dinner.” He draped a towel over his shoulders, hiding the blood. “I’m kinda busy at the moment, though. You can go.”

“Okay,” she said easily, disappearing back through the door. She didn’t close it, but left it ajar, like he was Klaus, who couldn’t be trusted to be in the bathroom with the door shut.

Luther sighed, dropped his arms to his sides, and frowned at his reflection. The cut on his chest felt sticky and stung unpleasantly. He switched on the shower and stepped beneath its hot spray, closing his eyes so he didn’t have to look at the blood running down his grotesque body.

* * *

Dad didn’t say anything when Luther entered the dining room, not even when Luther misjudged his proximity to the table and jolted it violently, making the cutlery jangle. Luther winced, and perched on the edge of his chair, holding himself tensely so he didn’t knock anything else with his lumbering body.

Grace served them dinner, and they ate in silence. Luther was ravenous, shovelling forkfuls of meat into his mouth. He was catching the last of the jus on his fork when his father finally spoke. “I’d expected you to have shaved by now, Number One.”

Luther lowered his knife and fork, swallowing. He glanced at Dad. “Um, yeah. I was… going to get round to that.”

“A man’s facial hair gives the world his measure,” Reginald continued, gesturing to his own neatly trimmed beard and moustache. “You look like a mountain man.”

Luther ducked his head in shame, cursing his own stupidity for thinking it acceptable to come to dinner looking so ungroomed. “I’m sorry, Dad,” he said softly, “I’ll do it after dinner.”

Dad gave a ‘hmph’ of approval, and returned to eating his peahen, and they sat in silence once more. Luther licked his lips, and reached for his wine glass. It slipped in his uncertain grip and to compensate, he grasped it harder. The sound of the glass shattering was deafening in the silence.

“Shit,” Luther muttered, feeling the sharp sting of broken glass in his palm.

“Number One!” his father scolded. Luther stood up, jolting the table once more. With shaking hands, he brushed at the pieces of glass, about to scrape them into his palm. “Number One,” Reginald repeated. “Grace will deal with that.”

Right on cue, Grace appeared at Luther’s side, clearing the glass with deft precision. Luther moved out of her way, head hanging.

“Dad, may I be excused?”

Reginald narrowed his eyes at him, assessing. “You may,” he said finally, and Luther tried not to run out of the room.

He went upstairs, to his bedroom. He bumped into the chest of the drawers as he went past, and as he slumped down on the bed, the springs creaked ominously.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force back the tears. He concentrated on his breathing. Deep breath in – long, shuddering breath out. 

He breathed, he bled. He was human. Whatever his body looked like.

He was lucky to be alive. Dad saved his life; he should be grateful. He shouldn’t be so shallow; Dad hated vanity. Hated it in Allison, would most definitely hate in his Number One. Luther was being stupid. He was being weak and pathetic, and it was unbecoming of a soldier.

Luther may be a monster, but he could still be a good soldier.

The bed dipped slightly, and Luther winced as he felt a hand run through his hair. For one foolish, _pathetic_ moment, he thought it was his father. But when he opened his eyes, he saw Grace’s soft, inhumanly perfect features. She was smiling, but in her eyes, he thought he saw grief, sympathy. 

But that wasn’t possible. Grace was a robot. She was as inhuman as he was now.

“Darling,” she said, “you’re going to be okay.”

Luther looked up at her with wide eyes, hot with tears. “But what if I’m not?”

He sounded pathetic, needy like Number Two, desperate to be loved, desperate for affection, desperate for proof that he was worthy of it all.

“You will,” she said, “because you’re strong. Not just in body, but in spirit.”

He wished he could believe her. He searched her impossibly smooth face for answers. Dad made her, right? Maybe he built in a way for her to help him through this.

“Mom?” he said, uncertain.

“Yes, dear?”

“Can you?-” he hesitated, not used to asking for help. “Would you help me shave?”

She smiled, stroking his cheek. “Of course, Luther.”

* * *

He sat on the edge of the bath as she brushed shaving cream onto him, giving himself over entirely. She wielded the straight razor as well as she wielded medical instruments or cooking utensils, with the incredible precision of something programmed for that very purpose.

She held his chin in her hand as she worked, tilting her head to and fro to get the best angle and lighting. She didn’t speak while she worked, and Luther allowed himself to get lost in the patterns of her dress, letting himself be moved, gently but firmly, from side to side.

Eventually, she placed the razor on the side of the sink, and patted his chin dry with a clean towel. 

“There we are,” she said, her hand cool on his bare cheek. “Good as new.” She patted his elbow, and motioned him towards the mirror.

Standing slowly, Luther went to look.

His body was still huge, and hulking, but his face was smooth, he could see the angles of his jawline and cheekbones. She’d left a bit of stubble; he looked a little rugged, but still smart. He stared at himself.

There was a hint of the man he was somewhere in that reflection. If he looked hard enough, he could see him.

Luther’s breath caught in his throat. He stumbled back, sat back down on the edge of the bath. He reached blindly towards Grace. His hand brushed against her skirts, and he felt rather than saw her step towards him. His hand landed on her wrist, and he clung on.

Holding onto her stopped the trembling in his hands. He couldn’t hurt her. She was a robot, made of much stronger stuff than humans, who were so fragile, so breakable. He clung onto her wrist and didn’t feel bones creaking beneath his grip. There was no gasp of pain, no resistance. She let him hold on to her.

She ran her free hand through his hair, coming to rest at the back of his head. Luther’s great shoulders shook as he sobbed, and Grace, in her compassionate, immovable strength, let him cry into her skirts, and cling to her like a lost child.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, comments and kudos make my day!


End file.
